


In Which Grantaire Kicks Some Ass

by Murf1307



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Feelings, First Date, First Kiss, Homophobia, Love Confessions, M/M, Martial Arts, Minor Violence, Miscommunication, Pizza, Slurs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-29
Updated: 2013-06-29
Packaged: 2017-12-16 12:44:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/862169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Murf1307/pseuds/Murf1307
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire kicks ass for great justice.  Enjolras reevaluates some long held assumptions and there are Feelings.  And possibly an accidental first date.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Which Grantaire Kicks Some Ass

Grantaire doesn’t talk about the fact that he’s into martial arts.  He just goes, four days a week, to a gym and kicks people’s asses.  Sometimes when he’s drunk he gets into a fight or two — especially if if he’s out with Feuilly and Bahorel — but it’s not the same when his senses and reaction time are dulled by alcohol.                              

The gym is one of the very few things he makes sure he’s sober for.

Because he’s never felt a rush like a full-contact match, total control and total self-annihilation.  Reduced to adrenaline and muscle and power and anticipating where the other guy is going to be next, he can forget the whole damn world for a while.  

Today’s no diffferent, and he throws himself into his match.  The other guy has six inches and maybe fifty pounds on him, but Grantaire can take him.

He settles into the sway of a ready position, knees bent, arms tucked.  He wraps his hands and wrists to keep from scraping his knuckles or spraining his wrists, but that’s the only barrier between him and his opponent’s skin.  He’s already stripped out of his shirt, because it gets too hot in here and he doesn’t need to get heat stroke on top of the inevitable bruises.      

The other guy strikes first, trying to force Grantaire into a defensive position with a badly telegraphed jab.  He’s new to this gym, and he’d been bragging he could take anybody here.

Grantaire doesn’t back down from a challenge, and he could tell from the way that this asshole moved that his claims were exaggerated considerably.

He feints aside, coming up on the outside of his opponent’s punching arm (his right; Grantaire’s in an opposite stance, leading with his left — most people fight right-handed, and they have no idea how to handle a southpaw when one shows up).  The guy’s eyes widen, and he tries to twist around, but Grantaire tags him in the ribs in a sharp warning hit.                      

First point.  He’s not going to bother going all out on this guy if he’s  not worth the trouble, and he hopes he gets it.

His opponent tries to recover with a kick, cutting at the back of Grantaire’s knee.  Grantaire bends, but only a little, and jams his knee into the guy’s stomach. Second point his as well.                                  

Points only count to the torso and the head, after all.                                              

Now he’s starting to piss the guy off, he can tell, and he smirks  as the guy growls at him, trying to kill his balance again and failing.  Grantaire hooks an arm under

his opponent’s and twists, pinning one wrist to the guy’s side.  This one hurts, but the guy refuses to admit to it.  Instead, he tries to get in a hook punch against the side of Grantaire’s head — one of the few moves that are illegal in this kind of match.

Grantaire isn’t having any of that, and releases his opponent’s wrist before sliding out of the way.  He bends back and kicks, balancing where his leg will go — the guy’s collarbones, or upper sternum, and tags him.

Third point.  Still plenty of time on the clock for this round.

This guy gets in one good punch the whole time, and it doesn’t even count, because Grantaire can feel the bruise starting to form around his eye.

Warning for the first offense.  One more and the guy’s disqualified.

The round ends.

Grantaire turns away and sees something he never expected through the glass of the window to the waiting area.

Enjolras.

Enjolras doesn’t even know — at least, Grantaire’s never talked about it — Bahorel must have, that  _fucker —_ about this. 

But Enjolras is right there, right next to the glass, watching.  Grantaire can’t quite parse out the look on his face, but it smooths out as their eyes meet.  Grantaire gestures with his head,  _Come inside_.

Grantaire is so, so fucked.  He’s not going to be able to concentrate now.

There’s a five minute break between rounds.  Grantaire usually doesn’t need it, and wouldn’t need it now, but Enjolras is here and watching, and Grantaire needs to ask.

Enjolras comes inside, toeing off his shoes in the doorway to obey the sign stuck to the frame — “please remove shoes before entering — management" and Grantaire feels his gut turning over and this is going to be awful, he just knows it.

"I didn’t know you did a martial art," Enjolras says quietly.

Grantaire wonders if this is an apology.  The last time they’d seen each other, they’d had a massive fight, after all.

"Since I was little, yeah," he replies instead.

"You’re very good."

This is awkward, because Enjolras is looking at him like he’s never seen him before.  Grantaire scrubs the back of his head with his hand, muttering, “I try."

Enjolras nods a little.  “I’m sorry — I probably shouldn’t have come here, this is your space, but I was worried about you.  It’s been a week, and I don’t have your phone number since you got the new one.  So I asked Bahorel where you were likely to be, and he pointed me here."

"No, it’s fine.  I — uh, please stay.  I fight better with an audience, I’m told."  Grantaire isn’t sure what he’s doing, but he wants Enjolras to stay.

Enjolras face suddenly falls a little — his eyes are glued to the growing bruising around Grantaire’s eye.  “You’ve — that’s not supposed to happen, is it?" he asks quietly.  “Your eye — you should probably put ice on it?"

"It’s fine," Grantaire mumbles back.  “It can wait."

"It shouldn’t, though."  Enjolras turns, seeing the ice pack on the bench Grantaire’s stuff is on.  He cracks it to make it cold, and reaches out to press it against Grantaire’s injured eye.  His other hand steadies Grantaire’s face so he can’t pull away.  “You should take better care of yourself," he chides gently.

Enjolras is rarely gentle, and never with him.

"Is this some weird, extended apology for last week," Grantaire starts, not really managing to make it a question, because Enjolras’s  _hands_  are on his  _face_  and shit, he is so, so very fucked.  “Because really, it’s fine, I’m fine."

"Ah, no?  Yes?  I don’t know," Enjolras says, tripping over his words as Grantaire settles his hands on the bends of Enjolras’s elbows, trying to push the ice pack away.

He’s never heard Enjolras at a loss for words before, and it’s pretty much taking everything in him not to blush.

"Hey, faggot!  You got a fight to finish, stop fuckin’ around with your fag  _boyfriend_ ," comes the voice of his opponent, cutting through the air in a vicious arc from the other side of the gym.

Grantaire sees red.

Before Enjolras even can react, Grantaire is on the other side of the room, pinning the bastard to the wall.  He’s got a hand around his throat, choking the guy, and has already kneed him in the crotch.

"One, he’s not my boyfriend, and two, if I  _ever_  hear you fucking say that again about him, I will not hesitate to fucking put you in the hospital."

Then he pulls back, retreating to the center of the ring.  He doesn’t look at Enjolras, but he can feel all the eyes in the room on him as his opponent pushes off the wall, looking a little wary and and a lot pissed.

This is going to be a hell of a round.

The ref looks nervous about letting them go on, but he gives the go ahead anyway.

Grantaire doesn’t give an inch, or give the bastard time to react.  He gets inside his space and starts laying it on thick with punches to the gut.  This is a warning to match the threat a moment ago, because unlike this guy, he can and will deliver on his boasting.

One, two, three more points in quick succession before the guy starts trying to grapple with him, clawing an arm around his waist and spitting on him.  Grantaire smirks, his mind clear of everything but purpose, rage, and skill; he spins, even though you’re not supposed to show your back to an opponent, and slams both hands in under the guy’s ribs.  They’re curled tight at the knuckles, a stiff half-fist meant to absolutely annihilate.

And the guy goes down, head turning just enough to avoid vomiting on himself.  He lays there, stunned, for a long moment, next to a puddle of his own puke, and seems utterly shocked.

"We have a winner," the ref says.  “By default, it looks like."

Grantaire looks around at the rest of the people in the room.  They all look terrified.

Except Enjolras.

Enjolras is staring at him in open awe and something like admiration.  Grantaire drops his eyes a little and moves back to the bench, where Enjolras has perched himself, and starts unwrapping his hands.

It’s disconcerting, the way Enjolras’s eyes follow him.

"That was incredible," Enjolras breathes when Grantaire gets back to him.  “That was — that was incredible."

"I don’t take well to assholes," Grantaire mutters.  “It was a warning."

Enjolras nods, offering him the ice pack again.  “Thank you, by the way.  I probably would have gone on for fifteen minutes about the relationship of language to oppression and then nothing would have gotten done."

"I thought you didn’t believe in violence," Grantaire teases, smiling.

"Sometimes it’s the only recourse left," Enjolras says, and he’s smiling a little, just at the corner of his mouth.  “And you’re very good at it."

Grantaire grins a little wider, a little high off the adrenaline still, though that’s fading.

"Should I start coming to rallies with you and play bodyguard?" he asks.  “That shit can go south fast, I’ve heard some horror stories from Bahorel."

"Everything becomes a horror story with Bahorel," Enjolras deadpans, smile widening as well.  “But I definitely wouldn’t mind if you started coming to rallies with us.  You do have some convictions after all."

Grantaire stiffens.  “Not really a conviction."

It’s more like a survival mechanism.

Enjolras notices, of course he does, and changes the subject.  “So, who was that guy?  He didn’t seem to know what he was dealing with."

"He’s new, apparently.  I don’t think he’ll be coming back, though.  He’d be too embarrassed after what I just did."  Grantaire smirks self-deprecatingly.  “Probably the only reason he won’t try and charge me with assault, too.  Too scared to admit he got his ass beaten by a  _fag_."

Enjolras is quiet, like he’s not sure what to say.  He winds up saying, “Do you want to go get dinner?  It’s dinner time, about."

Grantaire shifts a little before grabbing his shirt and pulling it on.  “Sure."

They’ve never had this kind of interaction before, but then, nobody’s called Enjolras a fag within earshot of Grantaire before.  It’s a night of firsts, it seems. 

Enjolras nods,  “Okay."

They head out, Grantaire saluting the room languidly as he leaves, eyes hardening only a little threateningly as he scans the faces.

Everyone is just a little afraid of him, and he smirks as he turns back around, catching the edge of Enjolras’s own little smile as they head out.  There’s even a little bit of spring in Grantaire’s step, and he keeps up at Enjolras’s side instead of trailing behind.

There’s a little pizza joint he likes to frequent after a fight, and he winds up leading the way there in a companionable silence, which is strange in itself, so, as they make it to the door, Grantaire turns to glance at Enjolras — Enjolras isn’t quiet, and never has been. 

And he catches Enjolras smiling —  _fondly_? — at him.  It’s playing around the edges of his mouth, anyway, and Grantaire flushes a little.

"This place is pretty good," he manages, holding the door open and gesturing for Enjolras to go through.  “I come by often enough, anyway."

Enjolras nods, abnormally quiet about it, and goes inside.

There’s a girl behind the counter Grantaire’s never seen before, but she smiles at them as they approach.  “You’re the boxer, I’m guessing?"

Grantaire nods.  “That’s me.  Grantaire.  And you are?"

"My name’s Joanne.  I’m covering for Cheryl, and she made sure to go over the regulars with me."  Joanne speaks quickly, a little nervous — she must be new — and then her eyes find Enjolras, and she pauses for a moment before asking, “But she never mentioned  _you_ …?"

Enjolras shakes his head.  “I’ve never been here before."

Joanne blinks.  “Oh."  Then she pauses.  " _Oh_."

Grantaire shifts uneasily.  He knows that look.  That’s the “You’re a  _couple_ , aren’t you?" look, and the answer has always been — will always be — no.

She shakes her head.  Back to business, apparently.  “What do you want?"

"I’ll have a chicken parm roll," Enjolras says smoothly, sliding forward past Grantaire.  He takes out his wallet.  “R, what do you want?"

Grantaire stands there, slackjawed, for a moment, and then protests, “You don’t have to —"

Enjolras cuts him off.  “You beat a man until he was on the floor vomiting, because he used slurs at us.  I’m buying you dinner.  It’s only fair."

Grantaire can’t really argue with that, so he shrugs.  “Uh, two slices, meat lovers?"

Joanne nods, and her smile is only a little bit conspiratorial as she grabs the roll and the pizza and puts them in the oven to heat.

"Sit down?" Enjolras suggests.  The pizzeria is empty, but for them, so they sit by the window.  Enjolras’s chair is a little rickety, Grantaire notices, but figures that if it bothers him, Enjolras will grab another.

"So, uh," Grantaire starts, a little nervous.  He’s not sure how to act in this situation.

"I’m sorry, for what I said during that fight," Enjolras, says, eyes darting somewhere over Grantaire’s shoulder before returning to his face.  He looks nervous as well.  “It was way out of line, and it was well within your rights to cut me out after."

Grantaire shakes his head.  “I was a shit, too.  And you said, before — you said you were worried about me?"

Enjolras  _blushes_ , which Grantaire has never seen before.  “Yes."

"Why?"

"We’re friends, aren’t we?  I mean, despite the fighting,"  Enjolras seems hesitant, like he’s not sure Grantaire is going to agree.

Grantaire nods.  “Yeah.  I — you’re, you’re one of the best people I know."

Enjolras’s blush deepens.  “Thank you.  And the sentiment is entirely returned."

"Thanks."  Now it’s Grantaire’s turn to blush, his face heating. 

"And, uh, the last time I didn’t see you for a week after a fight, it was because you’d gone on a bender and called me one Sunday freaking out because you were in bed with two strippers and a clown."  Enjolras smiles a little.

Grantaire rolls his eyes.  “Forgive me, O Fearless Leader, for not being sure if I hadn’t accidentally married one of them.  Wasted me does a lot of things even regular Drunk me disapproves of."

"And Sober you kicks the crap out of people at a martial arts gym."

Before he has a chance to respond or protest, Joanne is bringing them their food.  “Do you two want some drinks?  On the house, I swear."

"Sure," Enjolras says.  “Coke, or Pepsi."

Grantaire wants a beer to calm his nerves a little, but orders the same as Enjolras, if only not to see the inevitable disappointment in Enjolras’s face.

Joanne nods and comes back with two bottles — this is a Pepsi establishment — and Enjolras thanks her.  Then she retreats again behind the counter.  Grantaire’s pretty sure she’s not actively eavesdropping, but he’s still mildly uncomfortable.

"So," Enjolras says, cutting into his chicken parm roll, “Any other secret talents I should know about?  You’re an artist and you do a martial art — anything else?"

Enjolras’s sudden interest makes Grantaire even more nervous.

"Why do you ask?"

"I…I feel like there’s so much I don’t know about you, even though we’ve been friends for years now."  Enjolras shrugs, taking a few small bites.

Grantaire shrugs.  “I got stuck in ballroom dance lessons as a kid.  Some of it stuck, I guess.  And I got a 2320 on my SATs."

Enjolras’s eyes widen almost comically, and he freezes mid bite.  He pauses to swallow, and then says, " _2320_?"

"Yeah."

"I only got a 2270."  Enjolras sounds incredibly impressed.

"Only."  Grantaire smiles, teasing.  “I am surprised.  You seemed like you were the little Mr. Four-point-O, perfect score type."

Enjolras laughs.  “That was Combeferre.  I flunked the essay, and I hated most of my teachers."

"Of course," Grantaire says, grinning.  “You were probably a little shit."

"I was a little  _prep_ - _school_  shit."  Enjolras’s smile is positively wicked.  “I was a terror.  They only didn’t kick me out because my parents would have  _destroyed_ them."

Grantaire laughs.  “Man, what I would have given to know you then."

It comes out a little softer, a little sappier than he intended, but that just softened Enjolras’s smile as he asked, “What about you?  What was high school like for you?"

"I’ve known Jehan since middle school, and he was actually the one who convinced me to start doing a martial art.  He can easily take me in a fight — don’t tell him I said this — and Jesus, he can  _move_."  Grantaire shakes his head fondly.  “We were the two in the back of the room, him writing angsty capital-R Romantic poetry and me doodling all over my notebooks.  He was every English teacher’s darling, and me, well…I didn’t exactly get along with the art teachers."

"Were you a rulebreaker even then?"  Enjolras leans his elbow on the table, resting his chin in his hand.

"Pretty much.  I went through this really dark, surrealist phase they didn’t appreciate.  Sent me to the school counselor more than once — I’m pretty sure half of them were expecting me to show up with a gun one day."  Grantaire grins.  “Ah, my misspent youth."

He doesn’t say that that surrealist phase only ended when he met Enjolras freshman year; he doesn’t say that it was like suddenly all of that murky, nebulous doubt and discontent and cynicism had been split through and resolved into two opposing forces — hope, as represented by Enjolras, and his hard-won apathy and cynicism.  He doesn’t say that that’s why he has whole notebooks of Enjolras in chiaroscuro, even though all of that is true.

Enjolras looks at him.  “Do you still have any of your old work?  I mean, I’ve seen your representational works, some of them, but I haven’t seen you do surrealism."

"I could probably dig something up," Grantaire says.

The quiet that falls afterward is a little uneasy.  They’re too close to  _why_  Grantaire does martial arts, why he’d reacted so strongly to what had been said in the gym, and they both seem to know it.

Enjolras is still looking at him, and Grantaire can’t parse it all out.  There’s concern, and curiosity, and something else, something Grantaire can’t name.

Of course, this is when Bahorel arrives, shouldering through the doorway and coming to stand by the table.

"Am I interrupting date night?" he asks, smirking.

Both of them sputter and flush.  “No!" Enjolras says, voice high and almost hoarse.

"Just having dinner," Grantaire adds, though Enjolras’s reaction and the way that it stings him reminds him of why all of this — getting close, being civil — is really a bad idea.  “Since we’re, y’know,  _not dating._ ”

Bahorel grins even wider.  “Then I’m sure Enjolras won’t mind if I borrow you.  I have a thing, and I need backup, and Feuilly’s at work."

He clamps a hand on Grantaire’s shoulder as Enjolras’s expression shutters to a dead neutral.  “I suppose."

Grantaire’s about to open his mouth and protest, but Bahorel just drags him out of the pizzeria.

He is going  _murder_  Bahorel, and no one is ever going to find the body.

————————————————————

Enjolras is going to  _murder_ Bahorel for this.

Dinner had been going so well — they hadn’t even fought once, and Grantaire was kind of opening up, and now Bahorel has  _ruined_ it.

Enjolras throws out the plates and goes back to the table.  He puts his head down despairingly and thinks about the events that led him here.

Grantaire had been  _beautiful_  in the ring, harsh and sharp and vicious, and Enjolras had wanted to kiss him, even before that asshole had tried to insult them both.  After that, it has been extremely hard  _not_ to.

Enjolras has no idea what to do next.  All he knows is that Grantaire is brilliant and talented and wonderful and  _gorgeous_ , and it’s kind of killing him.

So he texts his friends — specifically Combeferre and Courfeyrac.

 **Enjolras:** Help me please.  I was having dinner with Grantaire and Bahorel came by and they left me here and Bahorel was my ride home can one of you come rescue me?

He’s too flustered for proper grammar, and it’s not until after he hits the send button that he realizes that he also accidentally sent the text to Grantaire as well.

"Shit," he squeaks.  “Shit shit shit shit shit  _merde_."

He buries his face in his hands.

His phone buzzes.

 **Courfeyrac:** u didn’t mean to send that to R, did you?

Another buzz.

 **Combeferre:** I don’t know what to tell you.

And another.

 **Grantaire:** I get the feeling I’m intruding.

Enjolras finally responds.

 **Enjolras:** I’m sorry I just — that wasn’t supposed to go to you.

Grantaire is quiet, but there’s a volley of texts outside the group message that goes like this:

 **Combeferre:** You’re going to have to explain yourself.

 **Courfeyrac:** u literally just apologized for the last fight what the hell enjolras???

 **Enjolras:** I didn’t mean to!  And I didn’t mean it like that, you know that.

 **Courfeyrac:** does R?

 **Combeferre:** How is R supposed to know that?

 **Enjolras:** I don’t know!  Please tell me what to do?

 **Combeferre:** You’re going to stay where you are.  If Bahorel’s aware of this — which he is, he just texted me — he’s going to be dragging Grantaire back there to make sure this gets resolved.

 **Courfeyrac:** u sulk when he’s mad @ u.

 **Enjolras:** …Fine.  But if this goes wrong, it’s not just my fault.

Neither Courfeyrac nor Combeferre responds to that, leaving Enjolras in the silence of the empty pizzeria.  Joanne’s still behind the counter, and he can feel her eyes on him, curious and a little intent.

"What’d ya do?" she asks from where she is.

"I think I started another fight with him," Enjolras says back, pushing his hair out of his face.  “I can’t seem to do anything but screw up when he’s involved."

Joanne pauses.  “I’m pretty sure he has a thing for you, and I’m also pretty sure you have a massive,  _massive_  thing for him."

Enjolras nods — there’s no point in lying.  “You’re right about the second."

"And the first," she rebuts.

"No — he doesn’t.  He’s…I’ve given him no real reason to even like me, much less have a  _thing_ for me."  Enjolras rubs his temples.

Joanne shakes her head.  “First of all, look at you.  You look like a goddamn angel, or something from a classical painting, or whatever.  Delacroix, maybe.  Second of all, the two of you are going back and forth like you’ve known each other all your lives.  Third, the way you look at him — it’s  _exactly_ the way he looks at you.  And, finally, I could practically  _see_ the butterflies in his stomach when you complimented him earlier."

"You think?" Enjolras asks, trying to push down the rising hope in his chest.

"Trust me, boyo, I’ve never been wrong."

Enjolras turned and looked out the window.  He considered what she’d said, and looked back over the events of the day again.

_Grantaire’s eyes widening when Enjolras pressed the ice-pack to his eye._

_The way he’d seemed so surprised by Enjolras offering to pay for dinner._

_How he’d blushed when Enjolras had complimented him._

_How he’d spoken just a little too fast when he’d said they weren’t dating to Bahorel, the way the protest sounded almost hollow on his tongue._

Could Joanne be right?

The evidence looks almost hopeful.  He considers all the smiles they’d exchanged, the way Joanne had assumed they were dating, the way Bahorel had.

Looking further back, he thinks about the stripper-clown-bender incident, how Enjolras had been the first person Grantaire had called, the fact that it had been a fight between them that had set Grantaire off in the first place.

Fear flares up in Enjolras’s gut.

What if he’d had a chance and blown it?

What if Grantaire has finally realized that Enjolras is awful and as prone to fucking up as anyone else?  What if this is the straw that’s broken the camel’s back?

He checks his phone again.  Still nothing.

He texts Bahorel.

 **Enjolras:** How is he?

 **Bahorel:** Sullen.  A little dejected.  About to stab me.  Why?

 **Enjolras:**  Are you bringing him back here?

 **Bahorel:** He’s about to stab me, what do you think?

Enjolras chuckles nervously.

 **Enjolras:** Thank you.

He fires off a group text (being very careful about who it’s to) to Courfeyrac, Combeferre, Jehan, Cosette, and Eponine.

 **Enjolras:** I’m going to do it.  I’m going to tell him.

There’s a moment of the text message equivalent of stunned silence, and then a flurry of messages.

 **Jehan:** Good luck!

 **Combeferre:** At long last.

 **Courfeyrac:** fuckin FINALLY (also jehan is rooting for you and crying)

 **Cosette:** I wish you both the best.

 **Eponine:** If you hurt him I will kill you and they will never, ever, EVER find the pieces.

Enjolras nods at the last one.

 **Enjolras:** All commentary noted.  Someone hug Jehan, and Eponine, you’re welcome to do so if I do.  I’ll deserve it.

 **Eponine:** Damn skippy you will.

The commentary dies down, and in the stillness, the fear returns.  God, he is so fucked.  If he fucks this up and loses Grantaire as even a friend, he’ll never be able to get over it.

Grantaire changed everything.  Grantaire challenges everything he knows and believes and it’s  _wonderful_.  He’s irritating and cynical and can be so much more than he thinks he’s capable of being, and he’s good at seemingly everything and Enjolras loves him —

Enjolras freezes up as the realization washes over him.

"Oh  _fuck_ ," he whispers.  “I’m in love with him."

Joanne slow-claps at him.  “Jesus, for someone who beat my SAT score by about five hundred points, you sure are slow on the uptake."

"Please shut up," Enjolras says, burying his face in his hands.  “This is terrible."

"No, actually, since most lasting relationships are built on mutual love, respect, and trust."  Joanne sounds like she’s reading out of a textbook.  “I’d say you’re headed in the right direction, bro."

Enjolras groans.  “The operative word is  _mutual_."

"I’ve already explained that to you, now shut up, I see your giant friend’s car."

Enjolras straightens up, color draining out of his face.  He’s not ready for this, he really isn’t, but he has to do it.  He already told the others he was going to, he can’t back out of it now.

God, he is so fucked.  So very, very,  _very_ fucked.

Bahorel drags Grantaire into the pizzeria and immediately leaves, driving off and leaving them stranded.  Joanne retreats back into the kitchen, out of sight and hopefully out of earshot.

Grantaire looks almost miserable.

"I didn’t mean it the way it sounded," Enjolras starts, standing up.  He feels shaky on his feet.  “I really, really didn’t."

"Oh?  Then how did you mean it, Apollo?"  Grantaire spits out the nickname like it’s poison.

For Enjolras, it almost is.  “I — I was nervous.  About waiting."

"This isn’t exactly a dangerous area," Grantaire said, thoroughly Missing the Point.

"It’s not — it’s not that — I…" He’s tongue-tied and nervous and afraid of saying right out that he was — is — terrified of fucking this up.

"Use your words, Enjolras, you’re good at that."  Grantaire is petty, vicious, but Enjolras doesn’t even have it in him to be angry, because Grantaire has every right to be pissed off at him, and Enjolras even sucks at apologizing.

He takes a deep breath.  “I was afraid of fucking this up," he says.  “I wasn’t asking them to rescue me from you."

Grantaire softens for an instant, but tries not to show it.  “What the fuck does that mean?"

"I…I was so scared that if I stayed and you came back, I would overthink everything and just — just fuck it up.  Because that’s what I do when you’re around."  Enjolras looks down at his shoes.  “I just — I consistently fuck up, even when I’m actively trying not to."

Grantaire inhales sharply through his nose.  “Yeah, but you always apologize."

"You deserve for me to not fuck up in the first place.  And I fuck up every time and, Jesus, R, one of these days you’re going to up and leave and it’ll be my fault."  Enjolras clenches his fists, his voice wobbling, and he screws his eyes shut because shit, he’s going to cry and it’s  _humiliating_.

"You’re…you’re freaking out.  You’re really freaking out about this."  Grantaire takes a step closer, then another.  “Enjolras, look at me."

Enjolras can’t refuse him anything right now, so he looks at him.

Grantaire’s face falls.  “Shit, why — are you crying?"

"Yes," Enjolras says, feeling a little sullen now.  This isn’t how this was supposed to go.  Enjolras has no idea how this was supposed to go, but this isn’t it.

"You’re crying."

"We’ve established that," Enjolras grumbles, sniffling.

Grantaire closes most of the remaining distance, plucking a napkin out of one of the dispensers on a table as he passes it.  He settles one hand carefully on the bolt of Enjolras’s jaw, and uses the other to blot at Enjolras’s eyes and cheeks.

Enjolras freezes.

"Why are you crying over me?"  Grantaire asks, and there’s a self-deprecating edge to his voice, as steady and neutral as he tries to keep it.  He keeps blotting.

Enjolras is weak-kneed from Grantaire’s touch, and it only makes it worse.

Still, he tries.  “I don’t want to lose you," he mumbles.

Grantaire goes very still.  “You’re — you’re not going to  _lose_  me, Enjolras.  I’m right here, aren’t I?"

He’s gentle, so gentle about all of this that he’s making Enjolras’s heart ache.  He can’t help but calm down, just enough to stop crying.  “I’m just — I’m afraid of making you leave."

"I’m not leaving.  You’re — why in hell would I leave?"

"Because I’m awful!"  Enjolras takes a step back.  “I’m absolutely terrible to you and I’m horrible at apologizing and — and — I don’t deserve this."

Grantaire freezes again.  “What do you mean?"

"Your — your gentleness.  You’re always, always gentle with me unless we’re fighting, and even then, you’re — you’re worse to yourself than you are to me.  God, Grantaire, you’re too good to me."  Enjolras grits his teeth.  “I don’t deserve you."

"Jesus Christ, have you lost it?  If anyone — if there’s anyone in the world who _deserves_  anything from me, it’s you!"  Grantaire sounds blown over, but Enjolras isn’t looking, his eyes back on the floor.  “After everything — all the needling I do, how much I annoy you…You put up with me, and you’re…God, Enjolras, you’re _amazing._ " 

Enjolras shakes his head.  “Not for this.  Not — not at people, and especially not at you.  Courfeyrac, he’s the one who knows how to talk to people, and Combeferre, Combeferre at least gets that we have to, in between everything."

"I don’t care.  I always bring it upon myself, anyway."  Grantaire sounds almost defeated now.  “I’m not going anywhere, Enjolras.  I’m not — I’m not even mad about it."

Enjolras looks up at him and swallows.  “You aren’t?"

"No."

"But — but —"

Grantaire takes Enjolras’s wrist in his hand, curling his fingers around the delicate bones there.  It’s reflexive, anchoring.  “Why are you fighting this?  Do you  _want_ me to be angry at you?"

He sounds genuinely confused, and his grip is as light as can be.

"No?  Yes?"  Enjolras is crying again, and he wipes futilely at his own tears with his free hand.  “I don’t know.  It — it would be easier of you could be mad at me.  It would make sense."

"You’re not making very much of that," Grantaire points out.  “Will you tell me flat out, what’s going on here?"

And Enjolras has to, he  _has_  to — there’s nothing he can do.

"I’m in love with you."

He pulls his wrist out of Grantaire’s grip, which has slackened completely.  He doesn’t dare to look Grantaire in the eye, and he runs for the door.  He’s not expecting Grantaire to catch him round the waist with an almost bruising force and pin him to a wall.

"Say it again," Grantaire manages, and he sounds strangled, and Enjolras can feel him shaking.

"I-I love you." Enjolras is shaking, too.

“ _Fuck,"_ Grantaire grunts, tipping his forehead against the wall over Enjolras’s shoulder.  They’re pressed together almost fully, and Grantaire has him bracketed between his arms — there’s no escape, so Enjolras just stays as still as he can, hands in tight fists at his sides.

Eventually, Grantaire shudders out a breath.  “You love me."

His voice is hoarse and Enjolras just nods, because he can’t — he  _can’t_ form words right now, with Grantaire like this.

Grantaire starts laughing, and it’s a terrified, hysterical kind of laugh.

“ _You_ love  _me._ ”

Enjolras recognizes that tone of voice — it’s Grantaire at his most self-loathing.  He can’t help but finally move, dropping his chin onto Grantaire’s shoulder and lightly, hesitantly resting a hand against his waist.  “Yes," he murmurs.  “I love you."

Grantaire starts calming under his touch.  “You really — you really mean it."

"Yeah.  I do."  Enjolras can’t help the nervous little smile.   “Um.  You don’t…mind, do you?"

Grantaire pulls back and stares at him.  “Mind?  Enjolras — do you even…" he says, and then trails off, as understanding dawns on his face.  “Oh my god, you actually have no idea how I —  _shit._ ”

"Is that a ‘no, I don’t mind?’" Enjolras asks tentatively.  “Because if you don’t mind, and you’d, um, if you’d like, you can definitely kiss me."

"I don’t mind at all," Grantaire murmurs, and he brings their faces together.  “And I definitely want to kiss you, if you’re okay with that.  Because, um, I…Iloveyoutoo."

Enjolras can’t stop smiling, and he just stands there, his hand warm on Grantaire’s side.  There’s a moment of stillness when neither of them do anything, and then Grantaire gently, gently slots their mouths together.

Enjolras doesn’t have very much experience kissing, so he doesn’t know what to do with his hands.  But Grantaire makes up for that by tilting his head and taking Enjolras’s free hand in his.  There’s something in the gesture that reads like it’s a question, like Grantaire’s not sure this is okay, so Enjolras squeezes his hand and presses a little harder with his lips.

When Grantaire pulls back to breathe, he looks like the world has restructured itself around him while they were kissing.

Enjolras can relate.

So he slides his hand out from where it rests on Grantaire’s side and throws that arm around the back of his neck, keeping him close.  Grantaire looks pleasantly, almost dazedly surprised, and Enjolras smiles before whispering, “That was nice."

"Y-yeah," Grantaire whispers back, tipping their foreheads together in a way that seems instinctual.  “That was — that was really nice."

"No one’s ever kissed me like that before," Enjolras admits.

Grantaire blinks.  “Was that your…?"

Enjolras nods, blushing a little.  “I just sort of…never got around to it with anyone else.  And then I just didn’t want to, because of you."

"How long have you…"

"At least a year."

“ _Shit_."  Grantaire’s touch is incredibly gentle as he cups Enjolras’s face in his hands.  “I…I honestly think I fell in love with you the moment I first saw you, when you interrupted Freshman art lab to bring Feuilly his coffee."

Enjolras blinks.  “That was the day Bahorel actually had a test and couldn’t skip, right?"

"Yeah.  You just sailed in through the door, carrying that cup of coffee, and I swear, from the look on Feuilly’s face right then you might has well have been Jesus."  He presses his lips against the corner of Enjolras’s mouth before he continues.  “But you were there, and you were the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.  And then I asked, and Feuilly mentioned the club, and then I mentioned it to Jehan, and he said he knew you too."

Enjolras nods, turning to catch Grantaire’s lips in a kiss before saying, “I think I fell in love with you slowly, over time.  And then it just sort of hit me that that’s what this feeling is, and, well, I kind of freaked out."

"I really don’t mind.  We’re both on the same page now, finally," Grantaire says, and he kisses Enjolras again, a little more firmly, as his hands move down to clasp Enjolras’s waist.

Enjolras makes a muffled noise of agreement into the kiss.  This one is different, surer of itself, and then Grantaire’s lips part a little and his tongue slips out, sliding along Enjolras’s lower lip. 

Before they can get to any proper making out, though, they’re interrupted.

"Okay, okay," comes Joanne’s voice.  “Lover’s spat resolved, truly soap-operatic first kiss, the whole bit — no making out in here.  There’s a Motel 8 up the street, if you need a room.  I do actually need to do business tonight."

Grantaire reluctantly pulls away and turns to her to apologize.  “Sorry."

"Cheryl’s gonna be ecstatic, you know.  She’s been rooting for you."  Joanne is smiling.

"Shut up," Grantaire says, flushing.  Enjolras laughs and slips his arms around Grantaire’s waist from behind, and that makes Grantaire mutter something in Italian or Latin that Enjolras isn’t in the mood to try and parse out.

"She’s right,"  Enjolras says.  “We should go."

Grantaire chuckles.  “But where?"

"I don’t want to deal with Bahorel right now," Enjolras admits.  “We can call a cab?"

So that’s what they do.  They kiss the whole way back to Enjolras’s apartment, and when they get there, it occurs to Enjolras:

"Did we just accidentally have our first date?"

And Grantaire laughs, and it’s the best sound Enjolras has ever heard.


End file.
